The Color of the Moment
by CatWingsAthena
Summary: When she is nine years old, the girl gives her soul to undo the damage she did with a red bicycle and a never-busy road. When she is nineteen, it catches up with her in a stolen car and a stand of trees. This story is magenta. This story is sky blue and heather grey. This is a story about captivity. This is a story about freedom. This is the story of how Parker became Parker.


**Author's Note:** This story contains (temporary-ish) character death, mentions of torture, and very vaguely implied sexual assault. Please be safe. Hope you enjoy!

The girl is nine years old.

It's one of the first warm days at the end of winter, and six-year-old Nick is riding a beat-up red bicycle. He's a little wobbly, but he's sure. Of course he is, she taught him. She taught him well.

He's riding in the road. It's a sleepy intersection. There are no cars here, there never are.

Until the car.

It comes out of nowhere. The screech of tires, electric lemon against the wide blue sky. Her own scream, bright magenta. The car, a dark green blur that speeds away without stopping.

Her little brother's neck, broken.

She runs out into the road, but she knows as soon as she reaches him. She scoops him up, willing it not to be true, willing him to open his eyes, say just kidding, give her one of his overwhelming hugs and let her smell the soft pink shampoo in his hair. She sits in the road, rocking him, until she can see nothing through the tears except the magenta against the sky.

Eventually, a rust-colored voice cuts through her cocoon of misery.

"You know, I hate to see a little girl cry," says the voice.

The girl doesn't want to move. She doesn't want to acknowledge this intruder. But a lifetime of ingrained instinct wins, and she wipes her eyes and looks up at the possible threat.

It's a man in a suit. He speaks with a funny accent-British, the girl thinks, she's heard it on TV. He looks at her like he wants something. That's never good. But right now, she can't bring herself to care.

"I can fix this for you," the man says, and the girl would almost hope except she knows that's wrong. Nothing can fix death, and her brother is-her brother is dead.

The man's eyes flash red.

"This is your little brother, right?" The girl nods. "I can bring him back for you. For a price, of course."

"What price?" the girl asks, because the man's eyes haven't made her believe he can reverse death, but she can't walk away from here knowing she didn't try.

"Your soul," says the man, and the girl suddenly knows who he is, and that what she's about to do is very very wrong. She also knows she's going to do it anyway, because this is Nick. She cannot leave this place with the knowledge that she could have saved him and didn't-no matter what the cost.

"Okay," says the girl.

"Well," says the man, "that was certainly easier than I expected. I haven't even mentioned the best part."

"What's that?" asks the girl cautiously.

"You get ten whole years before we come to collect. Ten good years with your brother. How does that sound?"

The girl's been assuming he'll just take her soul when she dies naturally, but she's still okay with this. Ten more years isn't so bad. It's not like she can expect to live much beyond that anyway-if she even makes it that long. Besides, this isn't about her. It's about Nick.

The girl stands. Reluctantly, she takes her first (and, she hopes, her last) unsteady steps in a world without her brother in it. "What do I do?" she asks in a quavering voice.

Then the man leans down and kisses her, gently, the way she kisses her brother on the forehead when she's tucking him in at night, except on the lips and he's a stranger and the sheer wrongness of it sends a shudder through her. Or maybe it's magic, because she feels different, somehow, and behind her, she hears her little brother stirring.

Instantly, she turns and rushes to him, dropping to her knees by his side. "Are you okay?" she asks, knowing it's a ridiculous question and needing to ask anyway.

"Feel awful," he slurs, rubbing his neck. "What happened?"

"You got hit by a car," the girl says.

Nick opens his eyes-the same bright blue as the sky-and reaches his arms up. He's outgrown that, mostly, but still does it on rare occasions when he's feeling just horrible.

The girl picks him up and carries him inside.

...

The girl is sixteen years old.

She was eleven when they placed her and her brother in separate foster homes. At first she screamed and fought, but she's come to realize that maybe it's better this way. She didn't sell her soul to keep him with her, she sold her soul to keep him alive. And she remembers how she felt, watching him die. She refuses to do that to Nick. Better that she recedes into the mists of his memory, and he never knows what became of her.

The only problem is she can't protect him now, but she hopes she taught Nick enough in the time they had to look out for himself. She only wishes that, at eight, he didn't have to.

The social worker said one of the reasons they did it was to "give her a chance at a childhood". The girl almost laughed at that. She was already driving getaway cars for adult thieves. By twelve she was boosting cars. On the snarling advice of a man who could never be called her father, she's become more than a better thief-she's become the best. Well, except for one.

The girl has blossomed under the tutelage of the man she pickpocketed in the park. Archie has become the closest thing she's ever had to a real parent, and he loves her like a daughter. He teaches her everything he knows, and she knows that one day she'll overtake him. And she knows he'll be nothing but proud.

Archie teaches her to look out for herself above all else. It's a lesson she's already learned since leaving Nick. When she was boosting cars with Kelly, she thought she had a friend she could trust, but then he left her to take the fall alone-six months in juvie gave her time to be bitter. Not that she would, or should, expect anything different. Still, she'd learned a valuable lesson. Never assume that anyone is going to be watching your back, so always watch your own.

Archie drills the same lesson into her. Whenever a job goes south, kiddo, he says in his heather-grey voice, get yourself out. Everything else is secondary. He won't put himself in danger for her, but he'll make sure she's strong enough to take care of herself.

Archie treats her like a daughter, but there's one thing he never does. He never takes her home to the rest of his family. They think I'm an accountant, he says. What would I tell them about you? It's a fair point, so she never presses. But she makes a deal with herself. If he ever takes her home, she'll tell him about her deal with the Devil. Tell him her brother died and was raised again. Tell him her soul will be forfeit in three more years. He won't believe her, but she'll tell him anyway.

He never does. So she never tells.

...

The girl is nineteen years old.

She is driving a boosted car, pushing it as fast as it will go down a deserted stretch of road. The clock reads 11:55. She can hear snarling in the distance, see shadows, but what's real and what's her imagination? She will not look in the rearview mirror. She. Will. Not.

Earlier in the day, when she'd furtively stopped for gas, she'd looked at the face of the attendant and seen it twist into something out of the nightmares she used to have when she was afraid of the dark as a child, only so much worse it barely registered on the same scale. She'd floored the accelerator and driven away.

Now, she's speeding down the road, trying very hard not to panic and mostly failing. She has no idea what "collecting" her soul will entail, but it can't be good. What will happen to her soul? Will it be taken to Hell? Imprisoned in a jar forever in some sick collection? And what about her body? Will it die, or be left as a husk? She doesn't want to imagine herself going around as a zombie. Then, she likes the idea of dying even less.

11:57. Apparently, judging by the sounds that are somehow getting closer even though she's pushing 120, she gets until midnight. So, technically, she gets a little more than ten years. That's good, she supposes. Or maybe it's worse, because last night she hadn't been sure, and she's been haunted by twisted faces and phantom growls for days. If this is soul collection, they could hurry it up a little.

11:59. The girl will not look in the rearview mirror. She will not look. But the prickling on her neck is growing stronger, and she swears she feels hot breath down her back and she can't resist any longer.

She looks.

And stifles a scream.

A pack of huge black dogs, but so much worse than that. Their jaws, their limbs, their skulls are twisted into an obscene parody of dogs. Their eyes are on fire. Their mouths are on fire. They run silently, faster than any car, panting out their determination for the kill.

Midnight.

The first of them jumps on her car, shattering the back windshield. This time she does scream, bright magenta on the dash.

She can't outrace them. So she does the only thing she can do. She goes offroad. Maybe, just maybe, she can outmaneuver them.

A few meters into the trees, she knows this was a mistake. They're around her on all sides now. Still, she has a few tricks left up her sleeve.

She feints left, then heads straight for a tree and pulls to the side at the last second. She hears a satisfying thwack as one of them crashes into the tree-but it quickly gets back up (What are these things made of?).

The girl wasn't a getaway driver for nothing. Her spatial awareness is superb. She knows exactly how to get out of the trees and back onto the road without being cut off by the dogs-

In this case, she realizes there is no such way.

There's also no way deeper into the woods without being cut off.

Today, the girl's spatial awareness only helps her realize a bit sooner how well and truly screwed she is.

12:02.

They crash in through her window. Their fiery jaws close around her shoulder and she's being pulled painfully up, out of her seat, out through the window, onto the ground.

That's when it starts. The clawing, the tearing, the biting. Everything is pain and warm wetness and some of it is the tears on her face.

The girl wonders if Archie will wonder what happened to her. If they find her, no one will know to inform him.

Her last conscious thought is that she's glad Nick isn't here to see this.

The last thing she sees before she's falling is magenta painted against the trees on the starry night sky.

...

The girl is dead. What does age matter?

(Age means nothing here, and it means everything, and-but she can't think, she can't-)

The man standing over her has told her his name. Always best to get started with introductions, don't you think? It's two dark oily syllables, forcing their way into her mouth and ears and eyes and down her throat and into her lungs and she can't breathe-

Moreau. The name is heavy, and she suffocates under the weight of it. Of him. She knows nothing here but pain and choking and constraints-

Always held down, never free to move-

That's almost worse than the pain.

But no. Nothing is worse than the pain.

And then, eventually, a question.

And she doesn't want to hurt anyone, (yes, she was a criminal before but no one got hurt), and she's fairly certain in the far-off part of her brain that hasn't forgotten she's a big sister that Nick wouldn't like this.

And it hurts so bad and she can hear Archie's voice in her head telling her to take care of herself first, and she hasn't cared about what Nick would think of anything in a long time anyway.

She says yes.

...

The demon is very, very old.

(By the standards of her kind, she is very, very young, barely even formed. But she's still young enough to count by a human lifespan, and by that standard she is old indeed.)

She's busy with a brunette woman who keeps calling for her parents, which is a bit unusual, though not as unusual as you might think. Still, most people her age shout a first name-usually a significant other, sometimes a sibling or a best friend, or even a child. You can tell a lot about people by who they scream for. Moreau taught her to listen for that. Not that the demon cares. Unlike some, she isn't in the habit of getting all chatty with the people she shreds.

The demon doesn't remember who she shouted for.

Assuming she shouted for anyone. She remembers most of her life, and remembers it being lonely. Dimly, she remembers a man like a father, but she can't remember his name. Maybe him-

"What are you thinking about?" Moreau oozes. "You're distracted. Pay attention, or do I have to teach you another lesson?" The demon shudders. Her last lesson was barely a week ago-

Chaos.

The sky is ripped open. Moreau turns to look-

Kiddo, get yourself out.

A heather-grey voice. Archie. That was his name.

Moreau is only distracted for a split second, but it's enough. She's not strong yet, but she's always been fast. By the time he looks back, she's not there.

She's weaving and dodging through a swirl of utter confusion. Everywhere is pitched battle. She slips by under the radar, pushing herself up, up, she didn't know she could do this, only that she has to. She's fast and light. Up, up. She's moving faster now. The rift in the sky is close. She bursts through.

She's a cloud of smoke in the air, along with hundreds of others who escaped along with her. She's dimly aware she's in a graveyard, and that there are people below her, but she can't stop, she has too much momentum. As she flies, it begins to sink in. She's free. She's finally free.

Soon she finds a body-a woman out walking her dog. She's not too happy about the dog after her run-in with the Hellhounds (she learned their proper name in Hell, along with a lot of other things), but she needs a body, and decides this will do.

Until she tries it on.

At first, it's wonderful. She's free. She has senses again, that are being put to use other than Hell. From the green scent in the air, it's late spring, probably April or May. She can feel a cool breeze on her face, pushing her hair back. She has breathing lungs and a beating heart.

But she can feel the woman's trapped mind begging to be let out, and the trapped feeling is entirely too reminiscent of Hell for the demon to be comfortable with it. She needs a body that doesn't think. Where can she get one?

Graveyard? No, ending up in a coffin is the last thing she needs right now.

Hospital? Perfect.

She leaves the woman and her dog behind and dashes off to find a hospital.

When she arrives in the air vents of a hospital morgue, she can see all the new arrivals. She looks them over, one by one. This one has too much external damage to pass as a living human, that one doesn't look as good for fitting through air vents and other small spaces-oh.

When she sees it, she knows. The body has minimal external damage, and is slender enough to fit pretty much anywhere the demon wants to go. But what clinches it is the appearance. The hair is blonde, exactly like hers used to be. The face even looks a bit similar.

She reads the toe tag. Alice White, it says.

She slips into the new body easily. It's perfect. She ambushes a nurse, knocks her out cold, and takes her scrubs, then walks out of the hospital like she owns the place. By the time she reaches the exit, she's accumulated a considerable wad of cash, two ID's that will work if no one looks closely (and no one ever does), three credit cards, and the beginnings of self-respect. (Oh yeah. She's still got it.)

The demon finds a library. First, she finds a newspaper and checks the date (May 3, 2007. That's a lot less time than she thought). Then, she Googles Archie Leach.

Good. He's alive. He's a respectable accountant. Not that she doubted him for a second, but it's still a relief.

She Googles Nick. He's doing okay. Not great, but okay. He's older than she looks now (but is so much younger). He works at Dairy Queen. He's been arrested for drug possession multiple times, but nothing for years. He's alive.

Out of curiosity, she Googles Alice White, and finds out that she died in a car crash.

It's the final confirmation. This is right.

It occurs to the demon that she needs a name.

She had a name, before, but that name no longer suits her. The girl who went by that name died in a grove of trees a long time ago.

In Hell, she was given a name, but that doesn't suit her either. She's through with Hell's rules, through with pain in all its forms. She's playing by her own rules now, and she can throw away every ill-fitting burden they gave her.

She needs a new name.

She scans the library shelves until something catches her eye. Parker & Parker. Parker. She rolls it around in her mouth. "Parker", she whispers aloud.

Her name is Parker.


End file.
